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A FAREWELL.

FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair

Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare ;
Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,

The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,

Farewell! we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,
Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,
And there will safely ride when we are gone;
The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door
Will prosper, though untended and alone :
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none :
These narrow bounds contain our private store
Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon;
Here are they in our sight we have no more.

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Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
For two months now in vain we shall be sought:
We leave you here in solitude to dwell
With these our latest gifts of tender thought;
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,
And placed together near our rocky Well.

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We go for one to whom ye will be dear;

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And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, Building without peer!

A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,

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Will come to you; to you herself will wed;

And love the blessed life that we lead here.

Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,

Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown

Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,

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Making all kindness registered and known ;

Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,

Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

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And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,

Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show
To them who look not daily on thy face;
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,

And say'st, when we forsake thee, "Let them go !"

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Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race

Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,

And travel with the year at a soft pace.

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,

And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best;

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Joy will be flown in its mortality;

Something must stay to tell us of the rest.

Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast

Glittered at evening like a starry sky;

And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,

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Of which I sang one song that will not die.

O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours ;
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,
And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;

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Two burning months let summer overleap,
And, coming back with Her who will be ours,
Into thy bosom we again shall creep.

TO H. C.

SIX YEARS OLD.

O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
Thou faery voyager! that dost float

In such clear water, that thy boat

May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream ;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;

O blessed vision! happy child!

Thou art so exquisitely wild,

- I think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

1802.

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I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality;

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And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest

But when she sate within the touch of thee.

O too industrious folly!

O vain and causeless melancholy!

Nature will either end thee quite ;

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,

Preserve for thee, by individual right,

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.

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What hast thou to do with sorrow,

Or the injuries of to-morrow?

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,

Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;

A gem that glitters while it lives,

And no forewarning gives;

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife

Slips in a moment out of life.

1802.

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Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few grey hairs;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;

Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight

When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;
Pleased at his greeting thee again;

Yet nothing daunted,

Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:
And oft alone in nooks remote

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.

Be violets in their secret mews

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling,

Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ;
Thou art indeed by many a claim
The Poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,

And wearily at length should fare ;
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art! a friend at hand, to scare
His melancholy.

ΙΟ

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